


I die of love for him

by outphan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, the other characters will appear in later chapters, through the ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25426312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outphan/pseuds/outphan
Summary: 'Yusuf can’t help but stare at him, but that’s okay, because Nicolo’s staring as well. He wonders if this was the reason God has brought them together: two people on opposing sides, giving them the opportunity to see, to experience, the other’s life.'or:Six years and six places in Yusuf and Nicolo's lives and relationship.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 29
Kudos: 196





	1. Jerusalem, 1099

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrickyVicky3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrickyVicky3/gifts).



> title is from a poem called 'Love in Bloom' by the Arabic poet Abu Nuwas  
> not betad, and I gave up on fact-checking every single thing, sorry if something is inaccurate!

Yusuf slumps back against a rock, catching his breath. He’s exhausted in ways he didn’t know was possible. He feels as if there’s a boulder resting on his shoulders, weighing him down.

Around him are dead soldiers, fallen friends, and fallen enemies both. Opposite him is a man he was sent to fight, to protect his land from. But that man just cannot seem to die. Then again, neither can he.

Yusuf watches him with careful eyes. He expects him to attack again like he’s been doing for the past three days. But the man stays still, not moving. For a second, Yusuf thinks he has finally died, but then he sees his chest rising, his fingers twitching. His armour is dirty, the hood of it has fallen off his head; where the skin is exposed, underneath the dried blood he expects to see cuts and scrapes, both deep and shallow. But his skin is smooth, seemingly untouched by the edges of Yusuf’s blade, no wounds or bruises appearing either.

So Yusuf examines his own arms. He remembers the other man's dagger cutting his forearm, but other than dried blood, there's nothing else. He also recalls a chest wound where a blade pierced him, but that is gone as well. He's dirty, yes, but otherwise healthy. 

As he’s trying to rest, before, inevitably, another round of their fight begins, his mind tries to find an answer. How is he still alive? How are they both still alive? How are their skin unmarked, yet all the others around them have fatal wounds? He knows the only answer possible is that this is a miracle. That he was chosen to protect his land from invaders, that he was deemed worthy. But then… What does that make of the other man?

The fight moved on, as the Crusaders pushed closer to Jerusalem, leaving a trail of dead bodies behind, along with Yusuf and the other man. All Yusuf can hope is that his people are safe, that his fellow soldiers have enough strength to save the city.

The anger suddenly engulfs him again, as he thinks about his family, his people, about them in the midst of danger. He despises the man in front of him, for putting his land in danger. He wants to get revenge, he wants to avenge the deaths of his friends and the effects of their Crusade. It’s within an arm's reach, Yusuf thinks, as he watches the man and he thinks about reaching for his sword.

If only he could kill him…

But he can’t. 

They just can’t seem to die.

So he might as well save his breath, rest up, before joining the fight again. That’s the least he can do.

He dozes off after a while, even with his enemy being so close. He’s just so tired that he can’t help it. 

He dreams, vividly, of two brown-haired women. One of them is wielding an axe-like weapon, the other one has a bow. They whisper things he doesn’t understand, for he doesn’t speak their tongue. But even if he doesn’t recognise the words they’re saying, he still knows what they’re saying: we’re looking for you, we need to find each other, stay safe.

Then his dream shifts, to a mousy brown-haired man, bloody and dirty, with a torn shirt. He’s got a quizzical look in his eyes as if he’s wondering why Yusuf is there. Yusuf sees this man more clearly than he did those two women and even so, it takes a moment to recognise him. It’s the man he’s been battling for the past days.

He wakes with a jolt. He blinks rapidly as he tries to rationalise his thoughts. He looks for the other man who’s still there. He looks like he just woke up from his dream as well, and Yusuf has a feeling they shared a dream. How’s that even possible?

The other man stands and Yusuf instinctively reaches for his sword. His opponent raises his hand, to show he’s unarmed and slowly, carefully walks closer to Yusuf. He extends his hand towards him, but Yusuf hesitates.

“Nicolo,” the man says, pointing to himself.

Yusuf blinks as he accepts his hand. Nicolo pulls him up, but doesn’t let go. They’re both staring at their joined hands. They’ve touched before; Yusuf pinned him down and then later the other man, Nicolo, grabbed him from behind. But neither of them realised that feeling in their hearts, in their heads, in every fibre of their being while they were fighting. But now that they seemingly gave up on killing each other, Yusuf feels that warmth spreading through him, that tingling feeling that pulls on his heartstrings just the right way. And after a quick look into Nicolo’s eyes, Yusuf knows the other man is feeling the same.

“Yusuf,” he says.

“Yusuf,” Nicolo repeats. For a second he looks like he’s going to say something else, but the lack of the common language prohibits that.

They let go of each other. Nicolo takes in the dead bodies as Yusuf looks around. They need food and shelter. He is not familiar with this region and he doesn’t know if any of the houses around here are still standing. But the night is coming and he’s worried that they’ll be discovered. They need to get away, at least for now, while they figure it out.

He doesn't know why he's thinking about a plan for Nicolo either. Logically, he knows he shouldn't care about him. That they are each other's enemies, that Yusuf doesn't need to care about food and shelter for Nicolo. But the dream he just had, changed his mind. They are on opposing sides, two people with different ideologies, but the feeling in his heart is still there: they need to stick together, at least for a while.

The only thing Yusuf is certain of is that they’re in a valley; south of them is Jerusalem; Crusader reinforcements might be coming from the north. To the east is the Arabian desert and even though they might not be able to die, getting lost in the desert is undesirable. So their only option is heading west. Hopefully, they’ll be able to find a village, someone who gives them shelter while they gather themselves.

“Nicolo,” Yusuf says, pointing to the west, motioning to Nicolo to follow him.

He starts walking and after a few seconds, he looks back. The other man is indeed following him, albeit a few steps behind.

For a while, they walk silently. At sunset, Yusuf stops Nicolo. He has missed a few prayers; now that the fighting is over, he feels guilt tugging at his insides and he wants to pray.

He’s vaguely aware of Nicolo’s intrigued eyes as he says the words, but he’s immersed in the feeling. He goes through the rituals and rites, and at the end of it, he feels better, closer to his faith and closer to his God.

Yusuf rises and looks at Nicolo who gives him a weary smile.

“Tired?” he asks, for a second forgetting that they don’t share a common language. 

And sure enough, Nicolo gives him a confused look. Yusuf thinks, then yawns and stretches, illustrating what he means. Then he repeats the word. Nicolo nods and says the word, but it’s not quite right. It takes him a couple of tries to get close enough.

Then it’s Nicolo teaching Yusuf the word. He also takes a while to get the gist of it, but he gets there in the end. Once it’s done, Nicolo says ‘tired’ in Arabic along with a smile.

Yusuf is feeling the same exhaustion. They need to find a place to rest and quickly. It’s been a long couple of days and they haven’t really had time to process the events.

It gets cooler as the Sun dips below the horizon. They keep walking west as twilight engulfs them. Soon after the stars come out; Yusuf takes a second to look at the celestial objects he knows so well.

He notices that Nicolo is watching. Not the stars, but him. When their eyes meet, Nicolo looks away, with a faint tint of redness on his cheeks. It’s a good look for him, Yusuf decides, before cursing himself for fraternising with the enemy.

A while later, they find a farm. The lights are on inside the small house and Yusuf can already imagine tearing into a freshly-baked bread. However, he knows that Nicolo can’t be seen by the family; Nicolo knows that as well. He waits by a tree, finally taking off his heavy-looking outfit.

Yusuf leaves him behind as he goes to talk to the family. They give him some food they can spare. Not wanting to overstay his welcome (and also eager to get back to his enemy who is turning out to be his friend, after all), he thanks them and leaves. He’s wondering how he’ll get different clothes, not just for him, but for the other man as well.

When he returns, Nicolo’s only wearing a linen undershirt and his trousers. Seemingly, he’s decided that Yusuf won’t try to kill him again. And even if he does, it will probably not take. Yusuf also knows it’s pointless. They’re stuck together, they’re surviving together because God wants them to. God has brought them together for a reason so who is Yusuf to debate that?

While they eat some bread, grapes, and fish, Yusuf wonders if they’ll ever be able to communicate. He knows that, probably over time, they will learn each other’s language, but until then, they won’t be able to really talk. He doesn’t even know where Nicolo’s from; although, given the fact that Yusuf comes from a family of merchants, he reckons, and only judging by the name, Nicolo is from somewhere in the Mediterranean.

During his travels, he picked up enough Latin to get by. By no means it’s enough for a full conversation, but he knows basic things.

“Nicolo,” he says, quietly. 

The other man looks at him. For a moment, Yusuf forgets what he wants to say. In front of him is a man, with silvery moonlight illuminating his weary face, his blood-soaked hair, his torn clothes. But all Yusuf sees are his kind eyes and his slight smile. He can’t help but stare at him, but that’s okay, because Nicolo’s staring as well. He wonders if this was the reason God has brought them together: two people on opposing sides, allowing them to see, to experience, the other’s life.

“Yusuf?” he asks, after Yusuf spends about a minute staring at his face.

Yusuf mumbles, and, in broken Latin, says, “Good food.”

Nicolo blinks. He must’ve understood it, the way he’s reacting. Yusuf doesn’t know if that’s his tongue, but he had to try. When he was speaking, or rather yelling while they were fighting, the words he was saying sounded Latin. He says something, but it’s way too foreign and fast for Yusuf to understand, so he just shakes his head.

Then, Nicolo says again, this time slower. “You speak Latin?”

Yusuf smiles, feeling grateful that they have a way to talk. Even if he’s not that good at it. Even if Nicolo is (was?) technically his enemy. Even if a couple of hours ago he wanted to kill him.

But that changed when they realised that neither of them can actually die. So Yusuf reckons God has a plan for them and if that means sticking with Nicolo, then so be it.


	2. Palermo, 1104

A bell beckons the believers in the distance. It’s a hot Sunday morning, the Sun scorching the Sicilian earth. Yet, the market is in full swing, people buying and bartering, trying to get what they can and selling what they can. Stalls are selling plump apples and pears, while others have colourful knick-knacks. 

Yusuf is sitting on the small balcony, watching the crowds beneath. He wishes he could be down there, mixing with the people, maybe even buying some of those peaches Nicolo loves so much. But he can't, because he’s not welcome there.

They’ve been talking about moving on, going somewhere else. But it’s not easy finding a place that’s safe for them both. And besides, deep down, Yusuf doesn’t want to leave. He likes it in Palermo, loves the house they’ve got. They made this their home for the time being, with Yusuf’s drawings hanging on the walls and bits and bobs Nicolo buys at markets. 

After Jerusalem, they made their way to the coast. In exchange for work, he and Nicolo got passage to Greece. They spent a couple of months trying to come up with a plan, trying to figure out where to go. Italy was the obvious choice, but they both knew that the powerful grasp of the Catholic church has reached most places. Finally, they settled on Sicily, where they’ve been for the past months. So it’s not like they have to stay here because the unknown of travelling is daunting. Yusuf’s tired of it, being on a ship, living in squalor with sailors.

It’s also quite hard to explain that, when they get attacked and when several crew members see them getting impaled, no, they just can’t die.

So they are in Palermo and will stay until they come up with something better.

Yusuf returns to his sketch. The scene on his canvas is looking a bit better, but he’s still not happy with it. He just can’t quite capture the features of Nicolo. Nothing is as good as the real thing, unfortunately.

And right on time, the door opens and in walks Nicolo with a basket on his hip. Yusuf looks up and can’t help but feel a tremendous amount of love for that man. The only thing is, he knows he’s not allowed to love him because he’s been taught it’s wrong.

But how can love so pure and great and overwhelming be wrong?

“What are you doing?” Nicolo asks in Arabic as he joins Yusuf on the balcony. Over time, they picked up each other’s languages and nowadays, they don’t even think about what language they use. “My nose isn’t that big,” he teases with a smirk.

“But your ego is.”

Nicolo gives him a stunned look before laughing. He then walks back inside to empty the basket. Yusuf follows him, not just to help, but to be near him.

Over the past couple of years, they’ve developed a friendship, although, at times, Yusuf feels it’s a bit more for both of them. A lot more. Nicolo often talks about his past, about how he was forced to become a priest because he loved a boy when he was young. He talks about his religion, too, which Yusuf loves hearing about, because he’s curious, but he hurts when he hears the pain in Nicolo’s voice. He used to be a devout believer, but that was before his religion chastised him for not being able to control his heart. Being so dedicated to his faith which then hurt him in return still causes him pain, Yusuf sees. But then Nicolo smiles and Yusuf just… falls even more. 

Love, between two men, is not natural, he's been taught. Love is between a man and a woman, or so he’s been told. That’s how it is in the Quran, that’s how it is in the Bible, Nicolo tells him. But he's fallen for Nicolo so fast and so deeply that nothing else but loving him makes sense. So how can such love be immoral?

The thing is they don't know when death will come for them. Might be tomorrow, or next week. Might be in a hundred or thousand years. Might never come for them. There is no one like them, as far as they know. So why waste it? Yusuf knows that his heart outweighs his head, that his love for Nicolo outweighs whatever they were both taught. He knows, or well, he's been told, love between two men is wrong, that it's immoral, that it's ungodly. But he also knows that his love for Nicolo is bigger than any sort of faith known to man.

At times, he just wants to lean in and kiss him. Sometimes the urge almost knocks him off the ground. Sometimes, it’s just bubbling, but whichever the case, it’s always present. Over the past five years, their enmity turned into an allyship, which then turned into a friendship. On Yusuf’s side, it’s gone further than that.

Right now, he knows he’s staring at Nicolo. He’s past being ashamed of it. He knows he loves this man, so deeply, so fiercely, but his heart is still at war with his upbringing. He knows he could leave everything behind just to be with Nicolo. He knows he would die for him, he would give up his immortality for him.

Five years is… both long and short. Long, because he had a friend who got married, had a family and died in those five years. Seemingly, he achieved everything. Five years is a long time when you’re mortal, when you’ve only got a set amount of years. But it’s short, too, because so far, they ‘died’ a handful of times and every time they have returned. And every time, the other was there, waiting.

“Yusuf?” Nicolo says quietly, dragging him out of his daydream.

Yusuf notices that they’re standing still, leaning over the basket on the table. Their upper bodies are touching as are their hips. They are so used to being in each other’s space, touching and reaching out to the other. It’s become a habit, a safe place. As much as they despised each other five years ago, now they can’t imagine going separate ways.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“I spoke to the old lady; she says her son wants a painting.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Yusuf says, but his heart is not completely in it. It should be, as the occasional paintings Yusuf sells are their main source of income.

“What’s wrong,  _ habibi? _ ”

Yusuf blinks at Nicolo. For a second, he thinks he misheard him. He wants to ask him to repeat it, but he might deny it.

“Where’d you learn that?”

Nicolo gives him a shy smile. “The old lady. She was talking about her husband and I asked her to teach me some endearments. I almost went with  _ ya amar, _ but you’re not the moon, you’re the Sun and everything around it.” Yusuf doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know he can say the thing he wants to the most, and anything else just seems empty. “Hey,” Nicolo bumps into him, “you know what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“Don’t,” Yusuf says with a small sigh, “don’t get my hopes up like that.”

“Yusuf.”

Nicolo puts his hand on Yusuf’s that’s resting on the table. His hand is soft and warm. Fits perfectly against his own. That tingling is still there, making Yusuf’s hand feel like it’s an extension of Nicolo’s. 

“Has she told you what  _ habibi  _ means?”

“Yes.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Yusuf says. “Then tell me.”

“You are kind and patient. You’ve taught me your language, your culture. You’ve shown me how wrong the fight I’ve been told to fight is. You make me laugh like no one does, you care about me like no one ever has. I meant it, you’re not the moon, you’re the Sun. You keep me warm, keep me safe.” Nicolo tightens his hand around Yusuf. “I know you’ve waited for me and I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

Yusuf knows Nicolo wants to say something else, but he doesn’t care because he’s already kissing him and Nicolo’s kissing him back with the same amount of fierceness. Right now, they are the last two people left standing on the planet and Yusuf reckons that come hell or high water, he will love Nicolo until they both stop breathing. Whenever that may be.

“I love you,” he whispers in Genoese and he knows all he needs to say.

Then it’s Nicolo kissing him, deeply with desire clear in his kiss. He reaches for his hand and leads him to the bed, while not breaking the kiss. Yusuf doesn’t know what to expect, but he doesn’t care, anyway. Being with Nicolo is easy, it’s self-explanatory. Kissing him is like that, too.

“I love you,” Nicolo says in Arabic, and kisses him again and again and again.

He was right, too. Nothing else but loving and kissing him makes sense. Now he knows that his head wasn’t playing with him. He has fallen for Nicolo, deeply and passionately. He doesn’t care if it’s wrong. How could he, when he loves him and Nicolo loves him back?


	3. Mdina, 1457

_Maybe this entry will live on. Maybe it will outlive me. All of us. Maybe five years or 500 years from now, hoping that it’s in good quality, someone will read this. But I feel like, after the day we had, this is the most accurate way to document it._

_It started normally. By our standards, I mean. I woke before Nicolo, who looked like he finally got the much-needed sleep. Exhaustion hit us both hard, but him especially. The lines on his forehead were nonexistent, his skin was smooth. I ran my fingers through his hair gently, doing my best not to wake up. He hummed in his sleep but continued dreaming. I spent the first 20 minutes just lying there, fingers in his hair. The room was basking in the morning sunlight and outside of our window, birds were singing their melodies. I wanted to sketch him, lying there, sunlight creating dramatic shadows on his face, but I didn’t dare to move. I wanted to stay like that for as long as possible._

_“Stop looking at me like that,” he said._

_Over the past 350 years, I have learnt that he is not a morning person. If he is forced to wake up by an outside force, he will get grumpy. With me, he just speaks in a weird mixture of Arabic and Genoese._

_“Can’t stop staring at what’s beautiful.”_

_The next moment, the door to our room opened. Fear swept through me for a second. We’ve been found. Either someone found out who we are, what we’ve done or what we are or even force. But then Quynh walked in, along with her love of theatrics._

_And she had a look. She managed to find the biggest straw hat in all of Malta._

_“Nicolo, would you braid my hair?” she asked. “Andromache has talked me out of this,” she points to her hat._

_Nicolo and Quynh have a special kind of relationship. He thinks of her as his little sister and she regards him as his older brother, even though Quynh is dozens of centuries older. She loves having her hair braided by him, a unique skill he’s picked up during our travels._

_And right on cue, Andromache walked in. “Sorry,” she shot us an apologetic look, “tried to stop her.”_

_Nicolo sighs. “Give us five minutes, please?”_

_Quynh clapped and out she walked with Andromache behind her who shut the door._

_We were invited to a wedding that day. Even though it’s been centuries, and I have learnt a lot about Christianity through Nicolo, it still feels weird whenever I’m having to enter a church._

_Nicolo knows about this. I could feel his careful eyes on me. I smiled at him and I wanted to reach for his hand and he wanted to reach for mine, but we couldn’t._

_We sat on a pew in the middle. The father of the bride invited us after we happened to chase some thieves away. He waved when he saw us but otherwise was preoccupied with the wedding._

_“Do you think we’ll be able to do this one day?” Nicolo asked quietly; his words easily got lost amongst the chatter of the wedding guests. “Do you think we’ll live long enough?”_

_“You mean get married?”_

_In every sense, we are married. We have shared three and a half centuries, shared a bed, shared a life. I know what stresses him out, what makes him happy, what he loves, what he hates. I know how much he loves me, I know how much he loves Andromache and Quynh. I know every single movement, thought, fibre of his. I have never loved and never been loved by anyone as much and I never will._

_I cannot imagine sharing immortality with anyone else._

_“I want to believe that,” I told him. “I want to believe that one day people will be accepting enough.”_

_“Of people like us? Of a man lying with another man?”_

_“Of love so big, so overwhelming, so passionate.”_

_He smiled at me and I touched his hand that was resting on the pew. No one saw us. Maybe God, of whichever religion, wanted to curse us out._

_“Would it be rude to use their wedding to have one of our own?”_

_He laughed, making it seem like a joke, a passing thought, but I realised this is no laughing matter. Maybe, until the world turns, until people stop being afraid of loves like ours, this is as good as it gets._

_“Nico… What if we did just that?”_

_He turned to me. “What are you saying, habibi?”_

_“Until we can get married, however long that may be, why don’t we do it? Here and now?”_

_We have talked about marriage. But two men getting married is impossible. No matter how much we wanted it, it cannot be an option. This is the second-best thing._

_The bride walked in and the ceremony began. So for a while, Nicolo stayed silent. Then, he leant closer and I will never forget the words he said to me._

_“I will love you until the day I permanently die,” he whispered in Arabic. “I will care for you, I will always be there for you, I will always make you happy. You are the man made amongst the stars and you are perfect for me. Your heart and your soul is full of love and kindness. I will never stop loving you, Yusuf al-Kaysani. I want to be your husband and I want you to be mine._

_I looked at him then and saw the tears in his eyes. How I wished I could kiss him._

_“Nicolo, I…” I tried gathering my thoughts. “What I feel for you cannot be captured into a few words. You are a breeze on the warmest summer afternoon. You are the moon guiding me through the darkest nights. Sometimes I feel like I’m not worthy of your love, you have so much of it and you give it all to me. My love for you is eternal, evergreen and ever-growing. I love you and I love you fiercely. I will never stop loving you, Nicolo di Genoa. I want to be your husband and I want you to be mine.”_

_Just as we finished, the priest said ‘I pronounce you man and wife’ and I think both of us imagined that he said ‘I pronounce you husbands.'_

* * *

“What are you doing up still?” Nicolo asks quietly as he walks out to the balcony. He puts his hands on Yusuf’s shoulders. “The bed is always cold without you, my love.”

“Almost done. I had to immortalise the day we had.”

Nicolo rubs the back of Yusuf’s neck. Yusuf leans into the touch. He still hasn’t had enough of these absent-minded touches and he doesn’t think he ever will.

“It was a good day.”

“It was.” Yusuf reaches for Nicolo’s hand, kissing his palm. “I love you, husband.”

“I love you, husband.” Nicolo kisses the top of his head. “Come to bed, _habibi._ ”

“I am.”

Yusuf closes his journal, deciding the drawings for the entry can wait. He stands and blows out the candle on the table, then follows Nicolo inside where Yusuf shows him just how much he loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on Tumblr [@outphan](HTTP://outphan.tumblr.com)


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